


The Department of Inter-Magical and Nonmagical Relations

by badjujuboo (miztrezboo)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Romantic Comedy, Sexual Content, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-03
Updated: 2011-11-03
Packaged: 2017-10-25 16:15:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/272238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miztrezboo/pseuds/badjujuboo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermione Granger annoys Draco. The way she chews her pen annoys him. The way she stares at him with her big eyes and the way she always argues infuriates him. And just when did he start thinking of her as Hermione, anyway?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Department of Inter-Magical and Nonmagical Relations

**Author's Note:**

> _Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling and Warner Bros. All_ _fics posted at this community were written entirely for fun, not for_ _profit, and no copyright infringement is intended._  
>  **Title:** **The Department of Inter-Magical and** **Nonmagical** **Relations**  
>  **Author:** badjujuboo  
>  **Rating:** NC17  
>  **Word Count:** 8250  
> 
> 
>  **Author's Notes** written for the Dramione_duet fest Winter 2011, for **reetinkerbell** and lovingly beta'd by **Mamacita**

**~-~ The Department of Inter-Magical and**   
**Nonmagical**   
**Relations ~-~**

 _\- Blue -_

Hermione Granger needed a good, proper kissing.

Well, actually, Draco imagined she needed far more than that. A right thorough shagging might be in order.

Not that Draco was offering to do either of those things. She was _Granger_ , after all.

She was staring off into space again, chewing on that . . . biro thing? He absolutely despised how she "Muggled up" his office. Not _his_ , office, either—they had to share. He'd never thought, when the Ministry had offered him a job instead of his "community service," that it would be alongside the people for whom he formerly had nothing but contempt.

"The Department of Inter-Magical and Nonmagical Relations"—what codswallop!

He'd been here for a year now and hadn't really seen what all the fuss was about. Had they mended a few bridges between the Muggle and wizarding communities? Sure, if you called having excessive banquets and balls with high-class and high-security Muggles a successful endeavour at mixing the two different worlds. Had they defused a few squabbles between magical beings? Yes, if you called throwing away money and land at the last meeting of Centaurs and Giants an attempt at peacemaking. Had they worked together "in harmony, being an example to the rest of the wizarding world on just how the old archetypes of their world had changed since the Great War"? Definitely; he got along with Granger most days and tolerated the skittish Muggle Brian Parker and the Squib Angus Geoffrey with perfected politeness.

Speaking of which, he was rather relieved that the annoying Squib cousin of Weasley's wasn't here today. Geoffrey's over the top flirting—or whatever it was he _thought_ he was doing with Draco—was annoying enough on a good day, let alone one as boring and as mundane as today had been, with only Granger for company.

And here Hermione— _Granger—_ was, nibbling the top of that pen as if her life depended on it. He had no idea what could possibly be holding her interest so that she had to sit there and do _that_ while being so heavily absorbed in the parchment in front of her. He'd been around Granger long enough now to know her tics, and this one meant she was onto something interesting. He'd much preferred it when they were back in Hogwarts and she chewed on the nib of her quill. It had always given him and the rest of his Slytherin friends endless mirth to watch her realise she'd caused a leak of ink to stain her chin and lips.

Long gone were the days of her using a quill every day. No, that particular form of writing tool only came out when she was signing her name with a flourish on legal documentation. She used a particularly beautiful (even to a Malfoy's standard) eagle feather quill. Now it was these disposable plastic Muggle things. Biros, she had called them. Muggle trinkets had no place amongst the Ministry workplace; well, that was his thought on the matter, which had been rather rudely shut down when he mentioned it to the Minister in passing.

Granger was a thorn in his proverbial side. Not only had she brought _biros_ into their shared work space, there was a whole cupboard full of _station_ _e_ _ry_ that had nothing to do with the sharp smell of ink and the feel of the _right_ weight when a quill was in his hand. She had small, rounded wire things that clipped the paper together. She had a big silver box in which she kept all their files in "alphabetical order".

 _Merlin_ _!_ He was a _wizard!_ If he needed a file on Archer and a file on Wemberley, he'd simply _Accio_ them into his hand. Why he'd ever need to search for things manually in some sort of order was beyond his understanding. Did she not enjoy the way magic made everything so much easier?

Though, with the perfect curls of her hair today, there was no way she didn't make use of the same hair-smoothing serum he'd used all through their time together at Hogwarts. It was a particularly expensive item and one had to know the right people to get hold of it. Draco had given up using it in fifth year when he'd figured out girls (in particular, Pansy) enjoyed running their fingers through clean, shiny hair left unfettered by product. Truth be told, Draco was a fan of the scalp-scratch and even liked the odd hair-pull.

She was smiling that secret half-smile again. The one where the corner of her mouth lifted _just_ a little on the left, causing a tiny divot to form in her cheek. He wondered whether, if she smiled fully, or really let go and laughed hard, it would become deeper. What would it feel like if he ran his tongue over it . . . ?

Draco shook his head, shifting in his seat. He really had to stop having thoughts like that about Hermio— _Granger_. She was a Gryffindor and he was a Slytherin. It didn't matter that they'd left Hogwarts over ten years ago; she was still all the traits that embodied her House, and he was . . . well, he was different, but there were still many, _many_ things that were the same.

He didn't enjoy spending time with Potter, which was difficult considering how often Potter was dropping by. He was always so _friendly_ , too, which didn't help matters any. And he nearly always brought the Weasel with him now that they'd started their Auror training. At least the red-headed one pretended Draco wasn't there.

He still loved flying on his broom and invested in the latest models whenever they came out. The Nimbus-Firebolt hybrid that was being tested now had pride of place in his cupboard at home, just itching for a good day's flying. Not that Draco would get any flying in any time soon with the endless amount of work he had on his hands here, with new problems that required his and _only_ his immediate attention. It had become blindingly apparent that only Draco was acceptable to deal with "pure-blood" issues, seeing as he was still a somewhat respected (albeit begrudging) "pure-blood" himself.

He still sneered—though not as often as he used to. There wasn't a lot to sneer about after the war.

A loud sigh brought Draco out of his wonderings and his eyes automatically shifted to the source.

Granger.

She was leaning over her parchment now, a few tendrils of hair having come away from the clip she'd wrestled them back into an hour earlier. The tips of Draco's fingers itched to curl them behind her ear, to touch the softness of her cheek, perhaps to run the pad of one digit lightly across the small dip in her bottom lip where she rested that stupid pen all the time. Maybe she'd stick out her tongue and suck his thumb inside the wet heat of her mouth and . . . .

Draco _really_ had to get laid.

These more than co-workerishthoughts he was having about Granger weren't doing him any good. Tonight, as soon as he'd made sure Granger had Floo'd home all right from the main grates in the Ministry lobby, he'd head straight home. He hoped Blaise would be out for the night so Draco could make good use of the empty space he shared with his former dormmate. A little time alone with Mrs Palmer and her daughters would be needed after watching Granger and that bloody pen all day.

He really had to find a place of his own, but until his mother gave in and either let him back into the Manor, or at the very least gave him access to the family Gringotts account, he'd have to make do with Blaise's lumpy sofa. All because he refused to have any part in her 'arranged' marriage to that bint Greengrass. You'd think being his mother, she'd want him to marry for love not just for good standing, but the war hadn't left the Malfoy name as untarnished as Narcissa had liked. The fact he was working for the Ministry after his community service was over didn't put him in her good graces either.

Another sigh, and Draco's eyes switched from frowning over a scuffmark on his left toe to Granger once more.

"Problem there, Granger?" he asked, adding the usual snark to his tone although even to his ears it sounded a little less stinging than it should. He was never polite, he was _him_ ;and she was _she_ , after all.

Hermione blinked twice and then turned to face Draco. "Nothing, why?"

"You're sighing. A lot," he added, crossing his arms over his chest to stop the twitching in his fingertips as with every blink a soft curl had bounced against her cheek..

"I was?"

"Yes. You were," Draco snapped.

"Oh," she said, her mouth forming a perfect circular shape that had Draco shifting in his seat. "I'm sorry that's annoying you?" She worded the last sentence as a question and Draco shook his head, not sure whether _annoying_ was the right word. Infuriating, sexy, and hot as hell were maybe some other words he'd use.

Their locked gaze continued, as did the silence between them, neither wanting to break the apparent hold they had until Hermione lifted the pen to its most recent resting place. Draco couldn't stop staring as her mouth opened and the familiar blue lid lay on that same spot it always did until her surprisingly straight, white teeth pressed into its plastic mould.

"Must you do that?" Draco asked, the words leaving in a rush through his thin-pressed lips before he realized he'd said them.

Hermione frowned, a little line forming between her brows, and she chewed even harder on the plastic tip.

"What?"

"Must you do _that_?" Draco barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes; his sneer, however, formed on his face with ease.

Hermione had the audacity to look flustered. "Do _what?"_

"That!" He gestured to her mouth with one hand, having released it from the death grip he'd had on his sides, all too quickly realising this to be a mistake.

"What?" she asked again, her eyes now wide with surprise, and before he knew what he was doing Draco was out of his chair and stalking the few steps to Hermione's desk. He plucked the pen from her mouth with as much care as possible as he leaned in close. He had her trapped in her seat with one hand on the top of her chair and the other on the desk beside the pen.

Draco could smell the intoxicating perfume she always doused herself with—well, he assumed she did considering he could always smell it when she was around. The warm fragrance of summer in his family's orchard filled his senses and he breathed in deeply, telling himself it was simply because he was out of breath—not at all that he couldn't get enough of the scent.

"That. Stop doing _that_ with that bloody biro." Draco's voice had taken on a husky tenor and his tongue followed the same path Granger's did as she wet her lips. He could have sworn her eyes were plain brown, but now he was _this_ close he could see signs of green around the pupils and light gold ribbons throughout. They were kind of pretty, he supposed, if eyes happened to be your thing—and they weren't, not for Draco.

"My biro?" Hermione questioned, but it was more of a whimper as the tip of Draco's nose brushed against the round of her cheek. Merlin, he hadn't realised he was that close, but she smelled so good. He had been right before: her skin _was_ soft there. Gods, she had incredibly long lashes, so dark and full and framing her eyes just right. He only noticed these, though, because she was blinking so rapidly. Not because he was looking.

"And stop with the questions, Hermione. Do you know how annoying it is that you never answer anything without phrasing it as another question?"

"I do?" she squeaked after the pink tip of her tongue flicked out across her bottom lip once more. Her fucking mouth—why was she always doing something to make him look at her mouth?

Draco chuckled, taking in a deep, shuddering breath. How could she be so completely oblivious to what she was doing to him? "You do," he said, right before he pressed his lips to hers.

Her lips were far softer than he'd anticipated—and pliant. She was still for a moment, but he continued adding light pressure until he felt her move with him. He lost what control he'd had—if he'd had any—the very moment that same tongue she'd been teasing him with came out and traced the line of his bottom lip before slipping inside to test out the strength of his own.

His hand slipped down from the top of the chair and finally pushed those wayward curls from across her cheek. His fingers slid into a tangled mess as the clip restraining Hermione's hair fell out and clattered to the floor. Merlin, she tasted so good, the honey and cream that had invaded his thoughts before returning with the memory of the Greek yoghurt he'd watched her lick from a spoon earlier at lunch. Always _something_ with that damn mouth of hers. Begging for this. Begging to be kissed and licked and nipped and explored by someone—well, someone with talent in that particular area.

This was wrong. She was _she_ and he . . . he was a Malfoy kissing Granger. What was he thinking? Draco had no answer; the only thing he knew was how amazing her lips felt on his. She definitely used the same hair product, because his fingers slipped easily through her chestnut waves and that felt good, too. So wrong, but so right. He groaned, a sound that emanated unwarranted from his chest, and with that her eyes, which had closed as _he_ had closed in on her, opened. Simultaneously, her hand, which he had just begun to notice was gripping his upper arm, met the side of his face smartly.

"Malfoy!"

He sprang back, his own hand raised to the reddened mark that he could feel heating on the side of his cheek.

"You just—you can't—don't ever do that again!"

He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but with a flurry of papers on her desk, Hermione was up and out the door.

 

 _\- Black -_

She was doing it again.

That bloody biro. Although this time it was a black lid hardly marred by the indentation of her teeth. He'd thrown out all the blue ones after the previous week's failed exercise in restraint. Granger hadn't said a word when she'd come into the office and hunted around on her desk for a pen. He didn't say a word, either, when she'd left and come back half an hour later with a box of 200 black fine-point biros.

He may have grimaced, but that was all.

Draco _despised_ those bloody pens.

It had been a week since the last "biro incident," as he liked to refer to it. He had walked in the next morning, fully prepared for another slap in the face, or at the very least a talking-to that would go on for an hour before their co-workers arrived, but . . . he got nothing. She had called out, "Morning, Draco," in her usual pleasant and up-tempo tone, and that had been that.

It actually swayed Draco a little; she hadn't want to argue about it or demanded that he apologise (not that he would have). When the Weasel and Potter walked in to pick her up for lunch, as they did every Friday, he braced himself with his usual sneer and had a dozen good comebacks on why his kiss with Granger had been a better five seconds (maybe ten) than Weasley's could ever have been. His worries were all for naught, because they didn't even spare a look in his direction.

No "keep your hands off our 'Mione!" or "touch her again and we'll set Ginny and her Bat Bogey Hex on you!"

Nothing.

Which in itself was a little worrying because she shared _everything_ with that annoying pair. Draco could still remember the way Weasley had mocked him over squirting some of that _white-over_ or _white-on_ stuff all over his best black robes when, in an utter coincidence, Hermione had worn a short skirt to work and instead of her usual flat shoes had on a pair of high heels that made her legs look like they went on and on. It didn't help that she'd bent over right in front of Draco and that because of said short skirt and enhanced footwear he'd had the tiniest glimpse of silk knickers.

She was wearing a skirt today; maybe she'd have something silky on under it again, something black or maybe even dark blue. Yeah, that would look unbelievably good against her creamy skin . . . .

Draco shook his head and looked back down at his paperwork. He was _not_ interested in Herm— _Granger's_ underwear, and definitely _not_ interested in her. The simple fact that his lips tingled every time she put one of those ruddy pens in her mouth was just . . . a reminder that he was allergic to kissing her. That had to be it.

Or it could be the fact that she was doing that bloody thing with the biro again. Honestly, it was as if she was doing this on purpose!

Geoffrey and Parker had left precisely at five and yet here he and Granger were, as they had been since working together, each waiting for the other to cave in and pack up for home. The ridiculousness of their rivalry, or stubborn refusal to give in, had gotten out of hand the first few months they'd been in this office together, neither leaving until well past midnight on some occasions. As time had worn on, the two had found some balance, usually reaching some unspoken agreement around an hour or two later than when their nonmagical counterparts had left.

It wasn't strange for them to be in their offices alone. It wasn't strange for it to be a little before nine that they were still here together. It _was_ a little strange for Granger to be just staring at nothing.

She was sliding the black plastic tip from one side of her bottom lip to the other, in the slowest and most maddening way. Then she'd press her teeth into the lid, just enough to leave the slightest indentation for a few seconds. It was absolutely maddening, especially if you coupled it with the tapping sound she made with the pen on the desk when she finally pulled it from her mouth's magnetic field.

It was enough to send mere mortal men—let alone a Malfoy—around the twist!

He breathed an audible sigh of relief as the incessant noise ceased, but when his eyes moved up and met her lips, and that stupid Muggle pen, the noise was more a stifled groan.

But not stifled enough. When Granger caught him watching her massacre another lid, she lifted one brow as if in defiance, willing him to say or do something. Draco just ground his teeth together and spun his chair to face the wall. Even staring at the fake sunlight that came from his enchanted window did nothing to stop his mind imagining her lips and the way they parted over the black plastic. The way her teeth pressed down with alternating pressure, soft and then hard, so it almost looked like she was eating the thing.

Now his pants were restrictive once more. Fanbloodytastic.

"Problem, Draco?"

He shook his head, not trusting himself to say what really was on his mind. Even with his back to her he could hear the smile on her face, see the biro sticking out of the side of her mouth in that little indentation it had caused from repetitive use. Those lips, those sweet, kissable lips that only a matter of days ago he'd had the pleasure of tasting . . .

. . . Not pleasure. Not a pleasure at all. A one-time thing he had no intention of repeating, no matter how much he wanted to.

Draco had no idea how to make up to his mother for his "failings", but he was sure that dating or doing _anything_ with Granger wouldn't help matters. And Draco really missed his king-sized bed and house-elves. He couldn't jeopardise getting all of that back by having a stupid crush on Hermione.

Granger. He couldn't like Granger in that way.

"What are you mumbling about over there, Draco?"

Her voice startled him out of his mind's wanderings, and out of his seat. The chair tipped backwards, sending Draco sprawling as it dumped him unceremoniously on his arse. He could hear Granger's guffaws ringing around the room as he attempted to right himself. Somehow he'd gotten his leg stuck in the bin that usually lived under his desk, and his body was squashed awkwardly against the wall.

"Do you . . . do you need some help?" she asked between snorts.

"I'm— _oh, bugger_ —I'm fine . . . _shit!_ "

"I'll take that as a yes."

The first thing he noticed when he saw Hermione standing above him was that his earlier predictions had been right. When she really smiled, that divot in her cheek deepened into a dimple.

"You know, it won't kill you to ask for help." Her tone had sharpened as if she were annoyed with him. Annoyed with _him_? She was the reason he was down there in the first place, with all her misleading acts of near-fellatio with those phallic-shaped pens!

"You _sure_ you're okay there, Draco? Because you really don't look like you are from where I'm standing," Hermione said with a smirk. Her arms were crossed just so across her chest so they caused the V-neckline in her blouse to deepen, revealing the lace of her bra.

Oh, fuck, anything but lace.

"Really? Well let's see what you think from down here, then, shall we?"

His foot moved to connect with Hermione's in such a way that put her off balance and in an unlucky (or lucky, depending on whose view you shared) event, Hermione ended up lying on top of the "stuck" Malfoy with a tiny, mouse-like squeak.

All Draco could do was stare into the endless depths of her warm-chocolate-swirled-with-butterscotch eyes. He could only feel the warmth of her body as it pressed all soft against his flat planes and sharp angles. She was curves and sweetness and kissable lips. Those lips were breaths away from his own and were shiny and slightly puffy from the endless pen-chewing.

He was just about to open his mouth and say something—anything—when her lips, those same bitten and abused lips, went crashing into his.

Draco was in such a state of shock as her tongue slid between his lips that he was barely aware of her hands on his chest, fisting in his robes. He could only watch and stifle moan after moan as she kissed him the way he thought _she_ deserved to be kissed, all licks, nips, exploratory touches, and tantalising tastes. Sounds of positive affirmation were forced down, as Draco remembered how, the last time, one tiny groan from his lips had stopped it all. And in that moment he realised he didn't _want_ her to stop.

His hands, which had lain dormant after grasping furniture and wall to help himself up, now met the swell of Hermione's hips and tight, apricot-shaped buttocks. She sighed into his mouth, manoeuvring her body so the apex of her thighs lay over his leg. He found a way to slide out of his earlier stuck predicament and pulled her closer, earning himself another pleased sound from deep in her throat.

Draco felt her hand slip between them, over buttons and soft linen, until his hips jerked upwards the second she pressed firmly over his prick. She kissed him harder then, her lips ravenous upon his, and for a second Draco let himself believe _she_ hadn't stopped thinking about their incident the week prior, either. His hands pulled her closer and he pushed his thigh between her legs, loving the way her breath caught with every movement.

Hermione's hand didn't lie forgotten, either. She was squeezing and stroking and driving him to the brink. It might not have been _exactly_ where Draco would have preferred it, under instead of over the cloth separating them, but with every jerk of his hips and grind of hers against him it mattered less. Their kissing slowed as each found it harder to catch their breath, working each other into a state of pure arousal and well on their way to a shared bliss.

This was much better than his latest (three or four times a day) wanks had been with a certain bushy-haired witch in his fantasies. He tore his lips from hers as her little keening sounds became higher, and let them explore the side of her cheek, her jaw, and finally the column of her neck, which she twisted just so he could have further access. Her skin tasted like sin, all fresh and sweet, and he couldn't get enough.

He was close, so close. By the sound of things she was, too, so he doubled his efforts, pushing up into her willing hand and pulling her harder against his leg. She was heat and touch and then he knew nothing but the sound of the ringing in his ears as liquid fire poured through his veins, turning his body into jelly. He came with the whisper of her name on his lips.

He lay there, absolutely spent, and revelled in the feel of her weight on his body, holding him in and holding him close. He didn't want to move. He didn't want to spoil what they'd just experienced with words he knew he'd never be able to string together into what he truly wished to say.

So he waited.

And hoped she'd speak first.

But here was no sound other than his ragged breath.

The second he regained his awareness, he opened his eyes. Surely he hadn't have passed out . . . she had been there and he _distinctly_ recalled the sound of his name, _his name_ , being called as her orgasm followed just seconds after his. He knew he'd been quiet for a moment. But didn't he have a right to be? She'd wiped all coherent thought from his body with what they'd just done!

She was gone and he hadn't said a word, again!

He slammed his hand against the leg of his desk and cursed as something sharp rolled off the edge, landing squarely with its point in the middle of his forehead.

He threw the black biro across the room. He would charm every last one of them from the office if she dared bring in another box.

 

 _\- Click -_

 _Click, click._

 _Click, click._

Draco counted off the beats he'd grown accustomed to waiting for during the week.

 _Click, click._

 _Click, click._

Then came the sigh, and then the creak of her chair when she switched crossed legs from one to the other. Then it was back to . . . .

 _Click, click._

 _Click, click._

It would be maddening if Draco hadn't happened to enjoy the monotony of it all. That, and it kept her hands busy, and in a twist of luck for which he was truly grateful, nothing was in and/or near her mouth. He hadn't had to stare at those ruby lips of hers for three days now. Five if you counted the weekend away from work. Five whole days of ignoring each other. Bliss.

Five whole days when the most they actually spoke was a brief grunt from him and a squeak from her. It had gotten to the point where even the other two members of the staff were now sharing looks and speaking with decidedly annoying stutters when they spoke to either Hermione or Draco.

Yes, he was calling her Hermione now. The whole "Granger" thing was starting to seem ridiculous after they'd shared more than just spit with each other. He'd Scourgified his robes after getting off with her last week, so there was no visible stain, but the fact was he knew what had happened. What had transpired between them didn't need a physical reminder when it was on constant replay in his head.

Not to mention it was his now "go to" wanking fantasy every night (and in the shower of a morning, and that one time when she got on the lift in front of him, her scent permeating the air, and he'd had to duck into the nearest men's to take care of himself).

He wanted to talk to her about it, to see exactly why she'd left in such a rush, but they'd not had a minute alone together. She appeared to have this knack for arriving at work after he did. Then she always made sure to leave on time or before him every afternoon. It was maddening, but he couldn't force her to discuss it.

Well, not with so many people around. Draco decided to bide his time until the perfect opportunity arose or he was merely forced into action.

"Well, I'll be off, then." Parker's nasal whine echoed in the silence of their office along with the scratch of his chair being pushed backwards on the wooden floor.

Draco didn't look up from the document he'd been working on, some tedious check-box rubbish that Granger had them all doing, "Personal Performance Evaluations." He was annoyed at having to fill one in. Surely their head of department wouldn't take any of this into consideration—who had time to read a thirty-six-page detailed document on each staff member's self-rated performance?

Then there was the fact that she'd bloody banned the use of quills to fill them in.

In his left hand Malfoy held a pencil—a ruddy lead _pencil_ —because Hermione had some stupid reason for that, too. The woman had more rules and regulations about the smallest bloody things than the Ministry had acronyms for its departments.

It was enough to drive a sane man barmy, let alone a sexually frustrated and annoyed Malfoy to the absolute brink!

There was a slight ruffle of papers and the door closed with its whiney squeak that he'd complained about to Hermione five times already (well, placed notes on her desk considering she was still ignoring him; utterly childish, he thought). Draco glanced across to her desk and shockingly found her still sitting there.

And didn't his mouth go dry at the sight.

There she was chewing on another bloody pen lid with _glasses_ perched on the tip of her nose, so far down they should have been falling off. Those tiny rectangular frames were sexy as hell when added to the naughty-librarian look Hermione was teasing him with today. Of course he'd noticed her tight dark tweed skirt; it hugged her thighs and arse perfectly. Of course he'd noticed how deep the v-cut in her cream silk top was; he'd managed to glimpse a tiny bow every time she bent over.

But now, _now,_ she had her legs crossed and was spinning her chair from side to side. Her skirt had ridden up on one thigh and there, right at the top, was a garter. And not just any garter, no, this one was black and lacy and had a bright red ribbon running through it. A red ribbon similar to the one he'd witnessed in the middle of her bra earlier in the day.

He was a dead man.

There was literally nothing Draco found more of a turn-on than bloody garters and stockings.

Granger was wearing both.

 _Click, click._

 _Click, click._

And with the bloody annoying pen thing, too!

Draco put his pencil down, stood, and walked quickly to the door. With a few quick unspoken incantations he'd locked the room nearly as tight as a vault in Gringotts, and placed on it what had become one of his trademark silencing charms back in third year when he'd finally had enough of Goyle's snoring. She, of course, didn't notice, only looking up when he cleared his throat.

Her brown eyes widened when she took in a quick scan of the room and found it empty of anyone but the man she'd been avoiding for far too long. Draco watched, knowing she would start packing up (which she did), and standing up to reach for her briefcase (which for some reason she always left on a shelf behind her desk), letting him see even more stockinged, shiny thigh.

Draco swallowed roughly, all the words and accusations he wanted to throw her way sticking in his throat as he surreptitiously repositioned himself in his pants. No one had ever made him as hard with as few movements of her body as Hermione did.

She stepped towards him, eyes meeting everything in the room except his, only stopping with a sigh when she was a few feet from where he stood.

"Move, Malfoy."

Draco leaned against the door, the magic he'd performed on the wood earlier providing quite the cushion to his back. "So it's Malfoy again, is it?"

She rolled her eyes and a tiny curl escaped the knotted-up do she'd probably spent hours squeezing her bushy hair into. Draco's fingers twitched at his side; the need to pull on the ringlet was slightly overwhelming.

"I'd like to go home."

"I'd like to go home, too, but that isn't happening in my near future," he said with an added snort. If only she knew what he was going to give up for her.

And it all started with those ruddy pens.

"Shift it, or have you forgotten what my hand feels like when it hits your face?" Fire lit behind her dark eyes then; it burned the brown brighter than he'd seen them before.

Then she licked her lips.

Always with the mouth. How could she _not_ know how sexy she truly was?

"You have no idea, do you? You really don't." Draco shook his head, fighting the urge to just jump the three steps to her and snog her senseless (yes, he still did remember how hard she could hit).

The briefcase dropped with a loud bang on the floor as her hands made their way to her hips. All he needed now was for her foot to start tapping and it would make for a picture-perfect pissed-off Granger.

"You are _infuriating!_ " she spat, and yes, there went the foot.

"I'm infuriating? Me? Now isn't _that_ the pot calling the cauldron black!"

"I highly doubt I annoy you half as much as you annoy me, with your stupid hair and your—"

"My _hair?_ How many spells do you put on that mop of a morning—"

"—poncy little smirk! Your bloody face would break if the other side of your lip ever managed to curl half as much as when you sneer!"

"—biros! Do you realise how many germs live in the mouth, and there you are sucking each and every phallic instrument in the room and you _wonder_ why I can't concentrate—"

"Are you _still_ harping on about the pens? It's been six months now—"

"Yes—six months, ninety-three days of you playing with pens near those red lips of yours, always with your fucking mouth and that sigh you make and you just make me want to kiss you all the damn time and—"

Whatever he was going to say after their little verbal sparring was caught between them as Hermione virtually threw herself at him, the same lips and mouth they'd been arguing about previously attacking his own with an almost violent fervour. Draco's head knocked into the wood of the door.

His hands were the second things to remember to move (the first being his lips) and they wrapped around her waist, travelling down to her skirt and pulling the material up over her arse as fast as his fingers could possibly grasp it. He wasn't the only one wanting to divest the other of annoying clothing; Hermione's hands tugged at his shirt, gripping the fabric tight on his chest before the sound of his buttons pinging on the wooden floor was followed closely by a loud tearing sound.

Draco didn't even care that it was the very last of his tailored shirts that she'd torn open. He _really_ didn't mind at all once her fingernails found his skin, scratching over his chest and down further. His eyes rolled back into his head when she toyed with his belt and the distinct metallic ring of blood-red nails on the silver buckle reminded him that he really should be more than merely a willing participant.

Their panting breaths filled the room between heady kisses with tongues tasting and nips that would surely break skin soon. Draco groaned when his fingers finally felt the lace of her knickers, and nearly whimpered when she slid her hand under the waistband of his trousers. Draco's knees buckled slightly when those inquisitive fingers wrapped as best they could around his prick, stroking him within the confined space.

It was when she managed to pull back his foreskin _and_ rub her thumb over the sensitive head that his grip on her arse cheeks tightened and his resolve to see where her "leap of faith," as it were lead, ended. Hermione's eyes widened and a shocked sound left those bruised lips of hers as he picked her up, spinning them around so her back was now against the door. Her legs had wrapped around his waist tightly, giving Draco's hands the opportunity to divest Hermione of that silly top she'd been wearing.

Hermione was making tiny kitten-like noises of approval as Draco's lips surveyed the round of each breast, following the threaded line of red ribbon from side to side and only pausing to tease the hardened peaks by sucking them into his mouth, lace and all. Her thighs only tightened around him when his teeth tugged at one nub that little bit harder than before.

He knew she'd like it a little rough. The quiet ones always did.

She scratched her nails over his back, pushing and tugging at his torn shirt until he shook off one arm, then the other. Gods, her skin was so soft and so sweet _._ This was different than the last time. This was Hermione taking charge, Hermione starting this, and by gods he'd end it with a bang so hard, so fucking _good_ she wouldn't be able to run away from him. She'd have to stay and they'd talk about whatever _this_ was between them and how neither of them could possibly think that what _this_ was could ever be a one-off.

Or a two-off, if you counted their little mutual getting-off the previous week.

Or three if you considered kissing to be something of a first-date thing.

But now it didn't matter. Now nothing mattered apart from his fingers sliding over the round of her stomach and over the curve of her thigh and down, down, down to the centre of her. Her lips found his shoulder, the hollow at his throat and the bumps from that stupid scar Potty had given him in sixth year. He loved that she didn't pause, didn't make a big deal out of something he'd ended up appreciating because it was the first real sign to Draco himself that he wasn't ever going to be up to the Dark Lord's task.

If he couldn't even get an Unforgiveable out—and at his once-enemy, at that—then how did he ever think he'd be a killer?

Not that Draco had ever wanted that. But boys are foolish, and he was an exceptionally foolish boy at that.

"Draco, _please_."

Hermione's breathy plea pulled him out of the past and into the now and why she was obviously asking for more. His fingers were _there_. There, above but not yet under her pretty knickers. He could feel the heat of her, the need in which she was so obviously caught up, that could only match his own.

Gods, he wanted her. He was caught in the dark chocolate of her stare (her glasses having been thrown behind them at some point), those wide eyes so open and naked to him as he ran a finger under the edge of the fabric, soft hair tickling his fingertips that were already wet to the touch. He felt his dick twitch in the space Hermione had somehow made in all of this. He'd not even felt her pull his prick out, let alone the sound of his zip moving down. He was so immersed in _her_ —in the touch, the feel, the _smell_ of Hermione in front of him and all around him—that little things like his own pleasure seemed of secondary importance.

Which was a first for Draco.

"Oh ,come _on,_ please, Draco. Slow later, slow tomorrow or the next time or the time after that, but now, _now_ I need." And she stopped her promises with a pull on his prick, his hand and hers meeting between them as she wriggled and guided him in. He twisted his fingers to shift the material aside as he slid forward, hips shifting slowly as they both sighed—an almost rush of breath out—in mutual satisfaction.

Hot, tight and wet heat was all he knew as he slid inside her, her fingers still wrapped around his and around him. He could feel _everything_ and she was right there, those dark eyes, pupils blown completely as they stared at each other.

If this was just what being inside her, getting _inside her_ felt like, then he never wanted to do anything else.

Ever.

Those white teeth pressed into her quivering, plump lip as he bottomed out, their hands sandwiched between them and he shivered at the feel.

Complete.

Whole.

And she'd said there would be other times, next times.

All the times.

"Draco," she whimpered, and her eyes pleaded him to go on.

If sliding in felt good, then shifting out only to fill her again was like finding Nirvana (or whatever it was that Muggles swore was like finally _your_ wand choosing you and you holding it in your hand). She clutched at his shoulder with both hands and he slipped his out from between them to curve around her waist, the other still planted against the cool wood of the door. He thrust into her hard, her loud moan filling the office, which he took as a good sign.

"I want more, you know," Draco said, barely keeping himself from just pounding her into the door.

She laughed and it shook her body, shaking him. "Only you would find now a good time to negotiate."

Draco started to pull out and Hermione frowned, her nails pressing into the round of his shoulders so he stilled. "I know you do," she said. "I was thinking maybe we could try. Though we have gone a little arse-about-face with this, haven't we?"

He tried to make his smile look nonchalant but knew from the twinkle in her eyes that he'd failed. "So you think we should date, then?"

"Dinner, lunch, breakfast tomorrow."

"Granger, I'm not spending the night in the office just so you can be first in line for some of those horrid muffins at the caf." He screwed up his nose, knowing how much she'd rave on and on about the blueberry and apple muffins from that little cafe she liked across from the Ministry (he may have been a familiar face there also, but that was purely because Hermione would _make_ him go pick up her two- or sometimes three-a-day order.)

Hermione pinched his side. "I make great eggs, if you have a decent skillet."

He raised a brow in that tell-tale Malfoy habit he'd practiced in the mirror since the age of six. "Already inviting yourself back to mine, are you?"

"Well, Ron's at my flat, kitten-sitting. Crookshanks fathered this litter and _ohmygodsdothatagain!_ "

"I'm not talking about the Weasel while we're in the middle of something as important as me giving you the best shag of your life, Granger!" Draco said, punctuating his statement with hard thrusts that eventually had Hermione's hands gripping his shoulders tightly and her eyes rolling towards the back of her head.

"Hermione—I like it when you call me Hermione, not Granger. Granger reminds me of who you were at school. And you're not that boy any more." Her eyes softened then, a smile playing on those lips and her lashes so dark, fluttering in that nervous tic thing she had. Gods, she was gorgeous.

He kissed her then. All soft and sweet and the barest of touches that left her wanting, if the way she tilted her head and body towards his was anything to go by. He started moving against her, his slow kisses echoed by the even slower grinding where their bodies were merged. Hermione's arms wrapped around the back of his neck, her fingers lazily carding through his hair as the hard and fast she'd asked for before became something more, sweeter and filled with the things that they'd eventually talk about.

It should have worried Draco. Feeling like this. Feeling like everything in the world was just a blur, like the only thing that mattered was her, her lips, her scent, the way she felt, and making _her_ feel good. Eventually their kisses became sloppy as she shook around him, her body tightening with every one of his thrusts until he guessed she was close, her fingers tugging at his hair, the nails of one hand scratching at his shoulder and back as she pressed back into him, an equal partner in this pleasurable game of push and pull.

Draco himself was wound tighter and tighter, and he could feel in his throat how much he wanted to come. Needed to just _move_ , but he needed to watch her go over the edge first. Watch her eyes go wide then fall nearly closed, full lashes fluttering on creamy cheeks. He wanted to feel her come undone around him, feel the pressure from all sides and see her dissolve completely.

In and out and harder and faster and the door making a knocking, but he didn't pay that much notice. His fingers slid from her hip to the wetness between them, slick soft skin burning hot under his touch as he found that tiny bump that had her crying out louder, hoarser, and his name falling from her lips. Falling and falling like a mantra until her mouth could only form the word because she was coming and he held her, supported her while she shook and her body tightened and that was all he needed to let himself go.

He was so close anyway it didn't take much but a few more thrusts that became erratic the more he chased his own ending. She called to him, his name a whisper and her words a jumble of _pleasegodsdracocome_ and then other things but then there were stars and her eyes and that was all he knew.

When he opened his eyes again after it was over, when he'd blown more than just his load—he was sure his _mind_ —shewas still there.

Not gone. Not Apparated (how _did_ she do that in their level of the Ministry, anyway?)

There.

With him.

And she was smiling. So he licked that dimple and she rolled her eyes and he laughed. Gods, he hadn't laughed that easily since . . . well, it had been a difficult few years.

He leaned in and kissed her again, their mouths moving lazily against each other, neither taking nor wanting the upper hand, just shifting slowly as heart rates returned to normal. Draco could kiss her like this forever.

"What are you smiling for now?" she asked softly, tugging on his bottom lip with her teeth.

His hand slipped from between them and back down her thigh, his body holding her against the door and _him_ up. Draco's fingers plucked at the ribbon on her garter, his brain just registering she was still wearing _that_ down there and that he'd never actually gotten to see the whole ensemble.

Maybe she'd worn it for him.

Maybe she'd wear it for him again.

"Nothing." He shook his head, grinning once more as he kissed his way along her jawline, nibbling on that spot near her ear that had her squeezing her thighs around him.

"Draco," Hermione admonished, biting her lip.

He felt his prick twitch at the sight.

"Gods, that mouth. That mouth of yours will be the death of me. If you're not chewing on your lips you're sucking on one of those pens. I hate those pens."

She smiled wickedly. "Why do you think I kept buying them?"


End file.
